


A View of the Sunset

by mmmdraco



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Snarky Malik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmdraco/pseuds/mmmdraco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik has nervous energy to burn before a mission. Altaïr, surprisingly, is helpful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A View of the Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "altitude".

Malik has a mission that he knows that he should be preparing for, but as the sun sets in Damascus, blazing in shimmering lines along the horizon, he is content to sit still and watch. He is on a roof somewhere in the city; if he would bother to look down from the sky he could place himself in an instant, but it isn't as important right now as the silence and the warm body he is pressed back against. He had gone for a run, just something to work off nervous energy, and had ended up being spotted by Altaïr who was to share in his mission. It was difficult to move beyond the other man as Altaïr seemed to move faster than him and had two arms besides for climbing anything Malik might find appealing to scale, but it was easy to be his better in a contest of wits, and the scowl that crossed the other man's scarred lips as each of those verbal barbs hit was a beautiful thing to behold.

Still, Altaïr knew. He knew the excruciating horror of having to lay in wait, even if he still wasn't terribly good at it, and it was a comfort to sit with him on a rooftop only for that reason. They had scaled walls in the city and clamored from one building to the next, and Altaïr had been better than Malik thought him capable about offering help before Malik could lower himself to asking for it. 

It is now, though, as they sit almost nestled together, Altaïr's thighs pressed against the backs of Malik's own as their legs straddle one of the roofing timbers that juts out from a building, that Malik is finally able to relax. There is still enmity between them, and Malik does not doubt that it will remain there forever to some degree, but Altaïr is beginning to show repentance in his actions, or at least a marked desire to help Malik that hadn't been there previously. It helps. 

Altaïr's hands lay on Malik's thighs, gentle at first, but as the sky darkens, his fingers stroke against the fabric and, almost against his will, Malik's thighs spread further and invite the other man's touch. "Just because I only have the one hand does not mean that I need yours on me," Malik says with just a hint more bite to the words than he can actually bring himself to feel. 

"Can't I just want to touch you in some illusion of being out in the open?"

Malik lets himself look away from the sky now to notice that where they are, where Altaïr has _led_ them, is almost the highest point in the city and though there are windows that he can see from his vantage point, they are in places where someone looking out from one could not see more than perhaps two pairs of feet, Malik's shoulders and face and the edge of Altaïr's cowl. Scowling, Malik still leans back against Altaïr's chest and murmurs, "Then make your touches count."

He can hear Altaïr swallow loudly, can picture in his head the pucker of the scar as Altaïr's mouth twists into that look he gets when he is unsure. Malik shakes his head and brings his hand down to twine with Altaïr's, dragging it under the red sash that hangs from his waist. He can hear Altaïr gasp as his palm slides across Malik's cock. "You owe me pleasure, do you not?"

Altaïr growls and presses his face against Malik's neck, his cowl nudging at Malik's hair and tickling him, but that sensation is overwhelmed as Altaïr strokes him from base to tip through the fabric of his pants. Malik isn't certain what to expect now. The dry wind that caresses the city is stronger up here than when milling through the crowds, and it almost manages to make him overlook the soft cries that float past, torn as they are from his own lips.

Malik finds himself tugged back from the edge so that he can feel Altaïr's hardness pressed against him even through all of their layers of robes. And then Altaïr's hand is burrowing beneath the layers of clothing that Malik wears and finding muscled flesh hidden away in the darkness, fingers making long strokes against his abdomen before catching at the waistband of his pants and pushing underneath, making quick work of sliding past undergarments to grip Malik's cock.

There is a moment then when Altaïr whispers something and Malik imagines it is his own name as Altaïr's fingers play through the moisture seeping from the tip of his circumcised cock. Moistened fingers play down Malik's shaft and grip him tightly, too tightly, and Malik winces. "Don't grab me like you're climbing a turret, you oaf."

Altaïr's fingers loosen and an apology is whispered against his ear with a panted breath and he is pulled back further, his ass leaving the stability of the timber so that he is perched on Altaïr's lap. He might normally protest, but that's all forgotten now with the sky darkening and the air thinned slightly by altitude and Altaïr's hand down his pants stroking him... And even the feel of Altaïr behind him; under him. The other man is just as much lithe muscle as Malik is, maybe even moreso now, and Malik wonders if he has ever felt this good to anyone else. Best of all, somehow, is the hardness pressed against his ass that, despite the clothing and the wind, seems to blaze hot against Malik. Choosing not to think, but perhaps also to indulge Altaïr's present kindness, Malik lets his feet find purchase againt the tiny lip of the edge of the roof and he pushes himself backward so that robes and pressure can wash across Altaïr's cock in one swell of motion.

With a soft gasp, Altaïr's fingers tighten further upon Malik, stroking faster, and his other hand slides up Malik's coat to clutch at the front of his shoulder, holding him in place as Altaïr rocks against him, and it's peculiar. His grasp is a hand's-breadth away from where Malik's arm hangs, partial and useless, and Malik still places the blame on Altaïr, but he can't find much malice in his anger any longer, and especially not when he can glance at that hand and see where Altaïr is missing flesh and bone as well, though not as much and more willingly given. What he finds instead, hidden in his feelings, is a passion. This act is not precisely new to them, nor are things even further frowned upon by a God that Malik still holds a few pretenses of believing in, but they are assassin's, and everything, _everything_ , is permitted.

It is with that in mind, that tacit permission, and the feelings and the niggling thought that someone, somewhere, might still be watching, that Malik spills himself into Altaïr's long fingers. He is pulled back tight against Altaïr, the other man's arms digging into his flesh, and there are a few more thrusts against his backside and Altaïr groans out his own release and lets the tension drop from his arms so that Malik is freed. 

"You'll want to change before that dries," Malik drawls out in a whisper and stands, quickly and carefully, along the timber and watches the city move in the last vestiges of day as vigilant shopkeepers set out lanterns while others choose to shut down their shops for the night. He turns back toward Altaïr and smiles as best he can manage with his feelings now at war within him, no matter how otherwise sated he might be. "I will see you at dawn, then?"

Altaïr's cowl hides his eyes and Malik resists the tempation to flick it back, but notes the curl of Altaïr's mouth as he speaks. "I would be in trouble again if I didn't listen to you, wouldn't I?"

Malik glances down at the ground again. "That you would." He snaps his head back to Altaïr once more. "Dawn, then," he says and steps backward off the timber, his muscles complying as he wills them to move; to twist his body. He lands in a cart of hay, his breathing ragged, and he laughs as the hay pricks at his flesh through his clothes and falls against his face from his hair as he stands up and brushes himself off. He is not the daredevil that Altaïr is, and he will never be because he finds ways to value order above chaos where the Creed doesn't refuse it, but he does envy that in Altaïr sometimes, and tonight has been a surpring night to find more than adrenaline within the actions. 

Quickly, Malik moves through the streets, his heart racing, and heads toward his lodging for the night to finish preparing himself for the mission. He had been dreading it, dreading Altaïr as a partner on it, but his worries had calmed now. He doubted himself able to care for all of Altaïr's mischief, accidental or otherwise, but believed now that he might be able to handle himself against it nonetheless.


End file.
